


Touch Me, Hold Me

by ProofOfConcept, wilddragonflying



Series: Collaborations [91]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, M/M, Oblivious, Touching, Touchy-Feely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:01:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27239227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProofOfConcept/pseuds/ProofOfConcept, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilddragonflying/pseuds/wilddragonflying
Summary: The first time it happens is right after the fight with Penny. Quentin is freaking out on the back patio of the Cottage, working himself up to a truly spectacular panic attack, when a hand lands heavily on his shoulder and scares the shit out of him. He whips around, and the last thing he expects is to see Eliot standing over him, a cigarette dangling casually from the hand not still gripping Quentin's shoulder.Eliot's never touched him before.(5 times Eliot initiates lots of physical contact with our favorite supernerd, +1 time Quentin asks for it)
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: Collaborations [91]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/41362
Comments: 6
Kudos: 112





	Touch Me, Hold Me

The first time it happens is right after the fight with Penny. Quentin is freaking out on the back patio of the Cottage, working himself up to a truly spectacular panic attack, when a hand lands heavily on his shoulder and scares the shit out of him. He whips around, and the last thing he expects is to see Eliot standing over him, a cigarette dangling casually from the hand not still gripping Quentin's shoulder.

Eliot's never touched him before.

"Come on," Eliot is saying, kind but firm, like Quentin hasn't just jumped out of his skin at a simple touch. "You can't stay out here wallowing by yourself."

It takes a moment for Quentin to make his throat work, to form actual _words._ "I - What?"

"I know you're freaking out," Eliot says. He still hasn't let go. "Anyone can see it, really. So either freak out while you smoke with me or do something about it."

"And what am I supposed to do, Eliot?" Quentin bites out, anxiety making him sharp. "I tried to use fucking _battle magic_ against another student. I'm sure the faculty aren't gonna just let me go with a slap on the wrist."

"Maybe not," Eliot says, "but what he did to you was pretty fucked up, too. And it's clearly not doing you any good sitting around here." He finally lets go of Quentin, only to offer him a cigarette. "So smoke this, and then let's go find out."

Quentin takes the cigarette on autopilot. "Can we... do that?" he asks doubtfully. "Just go demand to know if I'm gonna get expelled or not?"

"Why not?" Eliot asks. He snaps his fingers and a spark lights the tip of Quentin's cigarette. "It's not like it can make anything worse."

Quentin doesn't answer for a moment, focusing on the cigarette in his hand; only after he's sighed out a lungful of smoke does he speak. "I guess that’s a good point."

"Good," Eliot says, and exhales a perfect smoke ring. "Because I may have intercepted a message from the office. Fogg wants to see you."

Quentin can't help the way he tenses. "Shit," he mutters, focusing on the cigarette again. "Fuck. Okay. No sense in putting it off."

"Finish that first," Eliot tells him. "I'll walk with you."

Quentin looks at Eliot in surprise, but then his expression softens. "Okay," he says, giving Eliot a tentative smile. "Thanks."

They don't speak while they finish their cigarettes, and they don't speak while they walk to Dean Fogg's office. Eliot isn't allowed inside with Quentin, but - Quentin is alone in the office. Fogg asks for his version of events, why he used battle magic, and spends an hour alternately interrogating Quentin and impressing upon him the seriousness of the potential charges he could face. In the end, though, Quentin isn't expelled. He isn't even suspended; he'll be watched more closely now, Fogg explains, and he can't leave campus for a few weeks, but considering this is his first offense and occurred under strenuous circumstances, Fogg is giving him less punishment than he rightfully could. Quentin thanks him profusely, and practically trips out the door, nearly faceplanting into Eliot's chest. "Oh," he says, momentarily dumbfounded. "You're still here."

Large, warm hands grasp Quentin's shoulders. "Of course I am," Eliot says. "If you know who I am, does that mean they didn't expel you?"

Quentin laughs, a little too high-pitched, but a laugh nonetheless as he relaxes under Eliot's hands. "No, I'm, uh. Basically on house arrest for a few weeks, can't leave campus. And they're going to keep an eye on me, but. Fogg thought, since I haven't been trouble before now, and with the circumstances, it would be a bit.... um, much, to expel me."

"Well, thank God," Eliot says. He releases Quentin, only to wrap an arm around his shoulders and squeeze him tight against his side. "I never doubted it for a second. I definitely didn't have an elaborate plan to hunt you down and seduce you if they wiped your memory. I think this calls for celebratory cocktails?"

"Wait, what?" Quentin splutters, stumbling alongside Eliot. " _Seduce_ me? Eliot, you can't- You can't just drop something like that then ask about cocktails!"

Eliot just hushes him, gives his shoulders a squeeze, and marches him on towards the Cottage.

* * *

The touching becomes... kind of a _thing_ after that. It's like once Eliot knew that Quentin wouldn't freak out about another guy touching him, Eliot took any and every excuse to touch Quentin. The touches lingered sometimes, the way Eliot's gaze did, but.

Well, Quentin isn't desperate or stupid enough to think it means anything. 

Still, by the time the Trials roll around, Quentin's gotten used to the touching, even looks forward to it sometimes, the way Eliot will squeeze his shoulder sympathetically after a long day of classes, the way he'll press a drink into Quentin's hands with a wink and a smile. Then the Trials happen - with some more touching that makes Quentin's stomach swoop low in his belly - and then Brakebills South, and then - 

And then Quentin comes back after a _very_ awkward naked-cuddling-for-warmth night with Alice to see Eliot fucking _canoodling_ with some strange man in the backyard of the Cottage. 

Quentin doesn't like Mike from the start; he blames it on the fact that Margo is suspicious of him, but he can't entirely ignore the hot, green-faced monster that stirs beneath his breast when he sees the way Eliot touches Mike. He teams up with Margo, watches Mike and finds reasons to hate him that are more objective than his jealousy, tries to talk Eliot into seeing what they see - 

And then Mike corners him behind a greenhouse one night, furious with Quentin and Margo's 'meddling,' lifts his hands in a tut that doesn't flow through the air so much as stutter and scratch, and promises he'll deal with Margo once he makes sure Quentin's taken care of himself. 

It's his worst nightmare come to life as Quentin watches his hand move of its own volition, the rest of him frozen in unnatural stillness. His hand stretches out, wraps around the handle of the knife he was using to chop fresh-picked mandrake leaves, lifts it from the table - 

And feels someone's whole body collide with his, a second before he slams into the work bench. He drops the knife. "Fucking-- stay still," someone - _Eliot?_ \- hisses, and then Mike is flying backwards, crashing into a shelf full of planters.

Quentin would love to obey Eliot, but he isn't in control of his own limbs, can't stop his arm from shifting, his hand from reaching out. He spots Margo skidding around the corner, and he locks eyes with her, watches her eyes go wide before her expression morphs into a furious snarl. " _Eliot!_ " she barks, hands flying faster than Quentin can track. "I've got him, hold Quentin down!"

Those large, warm hands that Quentin knows so well land on both of Quentin's wrists, pinning them to the table. "Stay _still_ ," Eliot tells him again, even as Quentin struggles against him.

"Can't," Quentin manages to get out; he's trying to obey, trying to quit reaching for the _fucking_ knife, but he can't make his hands stop. " _El,_ I can't."

"Shh, it's okay," Eliot soothes him. He lets go of Quentin's wrists just long enough to wrap strong arms around Quentin and haul his whole body back against Eliot's chest. "I've got you. Relax, Q."

"I'd love to," Quentin bites out. "Can't, I - I can't stop. Need to - " 

Eliot crushes Quentin against him, and calls out through gritted teeth over the din of smashing plantpots and God only knows what else, "Bambi! You might want to hurry this along!"

"I'm _trying,_ Eliot!" Margo snarls back. There's another almighty crash, and finally Margo gives a victorious shout, coming back into view. "He's out! We just need to wait for Fogg to get here, then we can haul his ass to the clean room."

Eliot lets out a huge breath, and relaxes his hold on Quentin. "You okay?"

Quentin's only answer is a yelp as his body throws itself forward, still trying to reach the knife.

"Jesus fuck!" Eliot cries, only half a second behind Quentin. The ensuing struggle winds up with Eliot dragging him to the floor and pinning him down with all of his weight, even as Quentin continues to thrash beneath him.

"What the _shit?_ " Margo demands, jumping forward and kicking the knife further away, which only makes Quentin struggle worse. "He's unconscious, I know he didn't wake up that fast!"

"He's clearly stronger than we thought," Eliot forces out through gritted teeth. He wriggles one hand free from their mess of limbs and sinks his fingers into Quentin's hair. "Q, just calm down for me, okay? Don't fight it. I've got you."

Quentin's incapable of words, though; he can't _not_ fight this, because he thinks if he gives in, he'll throw Eliot off, and then... He can't help the choked sob that escapes him, and he tries to settle, but he _can't._

"It's okay," Eliot tells him, low and urgent. "I've got you. Just stop. I'm not going to let you."

Quentin keens, can't help it, and he tries to relax into Eliot, tries to trust him - but his body isn't listening to him, and keeps thrashing, struggling as furiously as ever. 

Margo blows out a breath. "I'm going to haul Fogg's ass here since he's apparently taking his sweet time," she mutters, kicking the knife even further away. "Don't you dare let go of him, Eliot."

"I won't," Eliot promises, the words soft like they're meant for Quentin rather than Margo. "I won't let go. I've got you." Magic settles over Quentin like a weighted blanket, pressing him to the ground with even more surety than Eliot's body.

Quentin gasps, and finally lets go. He stops fighting Mike's curse, lets his body struggle - but where he may have been able to throw off Eliot, Eliot's _magic_ is another matter. He's powerful, Quentin's always known this. Feeling Eliot's magic pinning him to the ground should be terrifying; right now, though, the fact that he couldn't move even if he wanted to is reassuring. " _Fuck,_ " he whimpers, eyes screwed shut as he tosses his head back, a scream or a sob tearing his throat apart from the inside. 

"I know," Eliot says. His voice is shaking, but neither of his holds on Quentin waver. "Fogg will be here soon. I'm so sorry, Quentin."

Now that he isn't fighting himself, Quentin finds he can speak a little more, even as he wishes Margo and Fogg would _hurry the fuck up._ "Not your fault," he insists. "Didn't tell him to do this."

"I should have listened to you and Margo," Eliot says. His fingers are still moving through Quentin's hair. "I shouldn't have trusted him."

"Not your fault," Quentin repeats, a near-breathless pant. He frowns, trying to concentrate as he ignores the futile twitching of his limbs under Eliot's body and magic. Are those footsteps? Or just his heartbeat pounding in his ears?

Both, it seems. Another moment passes before Eliot calls out. "Little help over here!"

Margo comes around the corner first, and as soon as Quentin sees Fogg behind her, he groans, and gives in to the urge to pass out. 

* * *

He wakes up in the infirmary, his friends by his side. Margo informs him with no little amount of satisfaction that Mike has been charged with attempted murder and conspiracy to commit murder, and isn't likely to see the light of day for decades, if ever again. Quentin supposes he's glad to hear that, but he can't really bring himself to be happy when he can still feel the knife in his hand, the way his body was desperately trying to get it back. 

He confesses to Eliot that evening, when he's the last one remaining before visiting hours are up - Lipson wants to keep him overnight for observation - that he's rattled not so much by Mike attempting to kill him, as Mike attempting to make him kill _himself._ Haltingly, Quentin reveals his history: the depression, the anxiety, the hospitalizations. The attempts. 

Eliot listens intently, his hands never leaving Quentin's. When he's finished, Eliot tells him about Logan Kinnear, about the bus and the blood on his button-down, about how Logan's death didn't stop the bullying or the way Eliot sometimes thought the only way he'd ever get away would be to die, himself. In another life, maybe Eliot would have said, " _You're not alone here,_ " but in this one, Quentin hears the words behind Eliot's story, knows they're there in the way Eliot squeezes his hand.

When Quentin is released from the infirmary, life goes back to normal. Julia hovers for a little while until she's satisfied that Quentin is as recovered as he can be, and then she goes back to her usual schedule. Life goes on, but... Quentin notices that Eliot is spending more time with him than before. He's not hovering, and he's not patronising, but. He's _there,_ and while Quentin certainly isn't complaining, he can admit to being a little unclear as to why Eliot's doing this. They're friends, Quentin can admit that now; maybe Eliot's still just shaken, a little guilty, from Mike's attempt on Quentin's life? Quentin pushes those thoughts to the side, however, determined not to over-examine Eliot's behavior and make himself paranoid. He's just going to enjoy Eliot's attention while he has it.

The last few weeks of the semester fly by, and before Quentin fully realizes it, finals week is upon them. The entire campus has kicked into a flurry of activity, magic thrumming through the air as students practice poppers and tuts and languages, finishing their projects for various classes and studying for finals before winter break. The night before his first test, Quentin holes up in the Cottage library, determined to get in some last-minute studying. It goes well, at first. He's not _flying_ through his notes, but he feels confident. And then, as usually happens, he starts thinking about _what if..._

Quentin can feel the anxiety attack coming; his breath comes in shorter bursts, his mind and heart are starting to race, and he _can't stop._ It's all he can do to keep breathing, to try to avoid passing out, and Quentin focuses on counting his fingers, tapping them rhythmically on the table in front of him and forcing himself to look away from the notes that started this spiral. He's just going to have to ride this out, he knows. Quentin's so focused on his fingers, counting one-two-three-four-five over and over, that he doesn't notice when the library door opens.

He doesn't notice he's being approached, either, until someone drops into the seat next to him and covers his shaking hand with their own. "Hey," a voice says, distant and echoing. "I thought I'd find you in here. Do you know what time it is?"

Quentin can't even find the energy to jump. "Um," he says, still not glancing away from his hand - his hand covered by one wearing familiar rings. "No?"

"It's late," the voice says. The hand squeezes. "Really late. I know you have an exam tomorrow."

"Yeah, I know that, too," Quentin says, a little sharper than intended. "I was studying."

"I know. But you also need to sleep."

Quentin frowns. "I'm not tired," he says dismissively.

"You're exhausted," the voice says. "Hey. Will you look at me?"

It takes way too much energy for Quentin to do as the voice asks. He's not surprised to see Eliot sitting beside him, but he can't muster the energy to be glad to see him, anxiety buzzing louder at the back of his mind now that he doesn't have the distraction of counting. "What?"

Eliot searches his face for a long moment, a small crease between his eyebrows. "You look like you're freaking out," he says slowly. "Are you freaking out?"

Quentin frowns. "Why would I be freaking out?" he asks sarcastically. "It's only the night before my first final exam at _magic college._ "

Eliot raises a single eyebrow. "All right," he says. "Is there anything I can do?"

Quentin snorts out a harsh breath. "Can you get rid of my anxiety?" he asks waspishly. 

Eliot blows out a long breath. "Okay," he says. The books on the desk slam shut, and the ones that actually belong to Quentin are swept off the table and into his bag. "Come on. We're leaving."

"Wait," Quentin protests. "Eliot, you can't just - "

"Yes, I can," Eliot says. "You're as prepared as you're going to be. You need to come upstairs and sleep."

"I'm not going to be able to fall asleep," Quentin argues, even as Eliot pulls him along. "My brain doesn't just shut up because I want it to, El, you know this."

"Well, I'm telling it what to do," Eliot says. He guides Quentin up the stairs and, once they're at the top, wraps an arm around his shoulders, pulling him in flush against his side. "I'm in charge tonight."

Quentin's anxiety doesn't exactly go quiet, but it _is_ drowned out by a certain other part of Quentin's brain who's suddenly very interested in the proceedings. It's all Quentin can do to not trip and take them both to the floor. "Um. What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about taking you to bed," Eliot says, steering Quentin towards his room. "You'll feel a lot better after a full night's sleep."

Quentin has no idea what makes him say it, maybe some combination of being flustered, anxious, and a little overwhelmed, but the next thing that comes out of his mouth is: "Yeah? Planning on tiring me out so my brain will shut up?"

Eliot snorts gracelessly. "As wild and out of character this may seem for me, I'm not actually propositioning you," he says, even as Quentin's door swings open ahead of them and he pulls Quentin through it. "Besides, I have a feeling you'll be out as soon as your sweet, fluffy head touches the pillow."

Quentin grumbles something wordless and petulant as his door swings shut behind them. "Fine," he sighs. "Can you let me go so I can get undressed?"

"Of course," Eliot says, and does just that. "I'll even turn around."

Quentin rolls his eyes at Eliot's dramatics, but he is self-aware enough to realize _he's_ being a bit of an ass, so he doesn't say anything. His bag has already settled itself onto his desk, so Quentin focuses on stripping down to his underwear and digging out a pair of sleep pants from his drawers. They're just an old pair of shorts, but it makes him feel a little better, standing in front of Eliot in something other than his boxers. "Alright, I'm decent," he says, turning towards the bed. 

Eliot turns to face him once more, and shepherds him over to the bed. "I'll tuck you in," he says, "and then I'll leave you to sleep, all right?"

Quentin hesitates. "Or you could stay," he suggests, without actually looking at Eliot; if he does, he's going to turn tomato-red, he knows it.

Eliot's eyes widen. "I don't know if that's a good idea," he says. "I'm pretty sure I interrupted a rather spectacular panic attack downstairs. Wouldn't you rather be alone?"

"I might work myself into another one if I'm alone," Quentin confesses. "It's happened before."

"Right," Eliot says. He looks at his feet for a second, and when he looks back up, there's something strange in his eyes - but he nods. "Okay. I'll-- I'll sit with you until you fall asleep, okay? Get into bed."

Quentin rolls his eyes, mumbles something even he doesn’t fully understand about not being a child around a yawn as he does as Eliot bids. "C'mere," he says, reaching for Eliot once he's settled. "At least sit up against the pillows."

"You're like a cute little koala bear, aren't you?" Eliot teases, but his smile is soft as he toes off his shoes and climbs onto the bed.

Quentin rolls his eyes, reaching out to tug Eliot in for a brief, tight hug. "I just wanted to do that," he says, ignoring the way his ears go hot. "Because, y'know. I appreciate you checking on me. Making me go to bed."

Eliot looks somewhat stunned by this, but he recovers quickly. "We look out for each other around here," he says. "At least, Margo and I do. We also spoon, when the situation demands it."

Quentin snorts. "Long as - " he starts, interrupting himself with a yawn " - you aren't expecting me to be an active participant tonight, then spoon away." Eliot was right; it's hard for Quentin to keep his eyes open now that he's actually in bed, the late night and near-miss with a panic attack making him even more exhausted than he'd realized. 

Eliot chuckles, fond, and makes himself comfortable while Quentin rolls over onto his side, facing away from him. A moment later and Quentin feels a warm body press up against his back, an arm slung over his waist. "This okay?" Eliot asks. His breath is warm on the back of Quentin's neck.

"'s good," Quentin mumbles, settling into the mattress more comfortably. "Night, El." 

Eliot gives him a slow, comforting squeeze. "Goodnight, Q."

* * *

Christmas is a quiet affair for the Coldwater household, just like it always is, but New Year is a little more interesting. Eliot insists that everyone in their little group comes back to campus in time for a truly spectacular rager on New Year's Day, and even though he pays for it dearly the next morning, Quentin has a great time.

The new semester hits like a tonne of bricks. Even Eliot and Margo slow down; the next big party isn't until the end of January, and even then Eliot insists on calling it an intimate soiree. There's very little intimate about it. It's smaller than the usual parties, but there are still people from all over campus crowded into the Cottage, and Eliot is stuck behind the bar for most of the evening.

Everything winds down eventually, though, and that's when Eliot finds Quentin, curled up in the reading nook with a battered copy of _The Wandering Dune_ where he's been for most of the night. But rather than drag him out to dance, like Quentin expects him to, Eliot just crawls right into the nook with him. He's warm against Quentin's side, where he's pressing what feels like his entire body against him. "Hi," he says, his voice low. "I brought wine - you want?"

"Um." Quentin swallows down the question he wants to ask in favor of nodding. "Sure."

Eliot produces a bottle of red and two glasses from absolutely nowhere, and obligingly pours Quentin a glass. "I hope I'm not interrupting. I just needed to get away for a minute."

"If anyone understands that, it's me," Quentin points out with a small smile, taking the glass Eliot hands him. "I'm just rereading something, you're not interrupting."

"I think you've got the right idea," Eliot says, settling himself more comfortably against Quentin. "It's just so hard to get away from the adoring masses sometimes."

"Oh, yeah," Quentin laughs, taking a sip. "Poor, popular El, got too many people asking you to make them your famous cocktails?"

Eliot sniffs. "I don't expect you to understand my plight, but let me assure you, the struggle is real."

Quentin snickers, settling more comfortably in his seat, Eliot's body still a long, warm line against his own. "Alright, alright. You can hide out here for as long as you want."

"You're the best," Eliot says. "Have I mentioned that you're my favourite? After Margo, of course."

"Obviously I'm the best after Margo; only an idiot would try to claim otherwise," Quentin laughs. 

Eliot gives him an approving nod. "At least you're paying attention," he says. "But it's very close. Don't ever tell her I said that."

Quentin chuckles quietly, setting his book to the side. "I like my head attached, thanks," he says. "I love Margo, but I have a healthy fear and respect for her, too."

They talk about anything and nothing while they finish their wine, but one bottle doesn't last long, and for once Eliot doesn't produce another. Instead he encourages Quentin to return to his book - "Don't mind me," all innocent and sweet - so Quentin does. It's a little more of a struggle, with Eliot pressed up against him in this small, cosy place, but it still doesn't take Quentin long to lose himself in the familiar pages. He gets so lost, in fact, that he doesn't register Eliot's unusual stillness.

Trap him in a confined space for too long with nothing to do and Eliot will fidget ceaselessly until someone kicks him out of it. But not tonight. Tonight, Eliot stays still, the warm weight of his body against Quentin's growing steadily heavier, until at last his head drops onto Quentin's shoulder. Quentin looks down at him and, with a start, realises that he's fast asleep.

This is the first time Quentin’s actually gotten to see Eliot asleep; the last time, before Quentin’s final last semester, Eliot had already been awake and sitting up by the time Quentin woke up. And for all that Eliot’s been incredibly touchy with Quentin over the past few months, this sort of thing - this easy, full-body contact - is still new. 

He likes the way Eliot looks, asleep, Quentin decides. He looks… himself, for once. Truly effortlessly, not the fake-effortless air that he puts on every morning. The lines of his face have softened, and Quentin gives in to the urge to carefully shift, pulling Eliot even closer under the guise of making sure his long limbs don’t spill out of the reading nook and pull the rest of him with them. Eliot doesn’t wake, barely stirs, and he doesn’t lose the peaceful look on his face. He curls into Quentin readily, and Quentin swallows, reminding himself that there’s still a party going on not ten feet away. 

Even that can’t stop his mind from wandering, though, his heart from hoping for something utterly foolish.

* * *

Margo corners Quentin the next day, asks about the night before, and when Quentin tells her that Eliot had just been hiding out in the reading nook for a while and fell asleep, she goes quiet for so long that it’s actually worrying. Eventually, she reaches up, pokes Quentin in the chest, and tells him that if he hurts Eliot, she’ll break him. She doesn’t elaborate, and doesn’t leave until Quentin promises that he’ll do his best to avoid hurting Eliot, but even when she does leave, Quentin’s still confused.

He and Eliot are close, yeah, and maybe they’re pretty physical, but. There’s no reason for Margo to be so _protective_ , is there? It’s not like he and Eliot are together, or anything, despite what Quentin’s dreams try to suggest sometimes. Quentin’s physical with Julia and Alice, too.

Except… On two different occasions over the next week, both Julia _and_ Alice ask him what’s going on with him and Eliot. They both imply that, whatever it is, it’s different than what Quentin has with them, and neither seems terribly convinced when Quentin tells them the same thing he’d told Margo, that Eliot’s a good friend.

It’s enough to make Quentin think, if he were any braver. As it is, he’s lowkey terrified of what the implications behind all three women’s questions might be, so he just… tries not to think about them too much. Unfortunately, just because he tries not to think about something doesn’t mean he succeeds.

Eliot finds him in the Cottage kitchen long after midnight that weekend, after the party has started winding down and people have left, either back to their dorms or upstairs with whoever they’re hooking up with that night. Quentin’s - Well, he’s _brooding,_ he acknowledges that, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t shoot a baleful look at Eliot when Eliot leans against the counter beside him, cocktail in one hand, and asks, “Why are you hiding out in here?”

”I’m not hiding,” Quentin grumbles, arms crossed over his chest. “I’m thinking.”

Eliot hums and sips daintily from his straw. "About what?"

"Stuff Margo, Julia, and Alice said," Quentin says, still not looking directly at Eliot. 

Eliot frowns. "Oh?"

Quentin sighs heavily. "I don't even understand it, so I can't explain," he says. "I'm almost sure they're just making fun of me, though."

"Probably," Eliot says. "But you shouldn't take it personally. I'm pretty sure they think everyone's an idiot. Margo and Alice, at least."

Quentin sighs, but he doesn't fight the slight uptick at the corner of his mouth. "Oh, no, Julia regularly thinks I'm an idiot, too," he assures Eliot. "Doesn't make it any less frustrating, but thanks."

"You're welcome," Eliot says pleasantly. "Do you want a drink?"

"Sure," Quentin says, giving himself a shake. "What're you having?"

"Just a cosmo," Eliot says. "You're welcome to something else, though."

"No, a cosmo is good," Quentin hums. "Then again, all of your drinks are."

"I know," Eliot says, a gentle smile on his lips. He sets his own glass down on the counter long enough to work his hands through a few complicated tuts, and then a fresh cosmo appears on the table in front of Quentin. At his questioning look, Eliot shrugs. "One I prepared earlier. I had a feeling you might need it."

Quentin smiles, a small, genuine thing, as he picks up the cocktail. "Well, thanks," he says, taking a sip and relaxing against the counter. "Nice to know I can count on you when I'm in a brooding mood."

The look Eliot gives him then is strange and intense. "You can always count on me, Q."

Quentin's breath catches in his chest, and it takes him a moment to respond; when he does, the words are soft, careful in a way he doesn't exactly mean them to be. "I know. And you can count on me, too, El."

Eliot smiles. "Thank you."

They fall into an easy, comfortable silence then as Quentin finishes his drink, draining the last of it just before a large yawn makes his jaw crack. "Fuck," he swears quietly. "Sorry, I think it's time for me to get some sleep."

Eliot just gives him an indulgent look. "Then let's go to bed," he says. "I'm ready to turn in anyway."

"Yeah, alright," Quentin sighs, unable to help the slight feeling of loss. "I'll see you in the morning, I guess."

"Or you could sleep with me," Eliot suggests.

Quentin stops. Blinks. Blinks again. He frowns, brow furrowing. There's no way he heard that right. "What?"

Eliot rolls his eyes. "Oh, come on, Q," he says. "It's late, we're drunk, Margo has hooked up with some third-year Knowledge student and I want to snuggle. Unless you have other plans, why not?"

"Well, no, I don't have any other plans," Quentin concedes. He feels like he should put up more protest, like there's something else going on, but... "Yeah, okay. I'll come up with you."

Eliot's smile brightens into a grin. "Excellent. I have the most luxurious sheets; you'll see."

Quentin rolls his eyes, but can't stop the fond smile. "Yeah, yeah; nothing but the best for you," he teases. "Well, show me, then."

So Eliot takes Quentin up to his room. It's not the first time he's been in here, far from it, but it is the first time he's been invited to slide between the admittedly heavenly sheets. Eliot isn't far behind, waiting just long enough to dim the lights and run through what he assures Quentin is a much-reduced skincare routine before he climbs into bed beside him.

He settles on his side, facing Quentin, and with the low lighting and the faintly herbal smell of Eliot's moisturiser, everything feels soft and intimate. Eliot peers at him through the darkness, something that looks almost tender on his face, and asks, very quietly, "Are you okay?"

"Just tired," Quentin murmurs. "It's been a long week."

"I know," Eliot says. He grins. "I think I'm still drunk."

"You think?" Quentin laughs, his next words teasing. "I can practically taste the alcohol on your breath."

"Would you like to actually taste it?" Eliot asks.

Quentin's breath catches, and then he laughs, just a moment too late, as he lifts his hand to push playfully - gently - at Eliot's face. "I'm drunk enough already," he protests. "Go the hell to sleep, Eliot."

"Ah, you're no fun," Eliot grumbles, but he doesn't press it further.

Quentin rolls his eyes and then himself, shifting onto his back so that he can more comfortably fall asleep. 

He wakes slowly in the morning; the only indication that it _is_ morning is the soft daylight filtering in through the sheer curtains drawn across the windows.Quentin is warm and comfortable, and he's sorely tempted to let himself fall back asleep, except... Well, except for the heavy arm over his waist, the soft huff of breath across his collar, and the heat of someone's body pressed against his. It takes a moment for memories to settle in Quentin's mind, and when they do, he grits his teeth. The party, drinking, reading, brooding in the kitchen, Eliot finding him, giving him another drink - 

Eliot inviting him upstairs to sleep, inviting Quentin to taste the alcohol lingering in his mouth, falling asleep next to Quentin and moving closer in the night, apparently, until he's snug up against Quentin's side. 

Quentin practically feels something _crack_ open in his chest, and he doesn't know if it's his resolve or his heart, but either way, it pisses him off. He none-too-gently shoves Eliot's arm off of him, sitting up too fast but ignoring the way his head swims in favor of swinging his legs over the side of the bed and burying his head in his hands, running them up to fist in his hair before he stands, grateful that he's at least not doing this fucking _naked_ or in his underwear, still in the soft sweatpants he wore to the party the night before. "Eliot," he says, and then again, louder, when Eliot barely stirs. " _Eliot!"_

"Jesus, where's the fire?" Eliot complains, screwing up his eyes rather than opening them. "If you're going to be sick, please do it in the bathroom. Magic can get rid of the mess, but the smell is another matter."

"I'm not going to be sick, I need to talk to you before I lose my goddamn nerve," Quentin snaps. 

"We're doing this now?" Eliot groans, but he sits up, though it clearly takes a considerable amount of effort. He wrestles himself until he's sitting cross-legged on the bed, and he looks tired but alert, gazing at Quentin expectantly as though Quentin isn't about to boil over. "Okay. I'm awake. Let's do this."

"Right," Quentin says, sighing harshly. "Okay. What the _fuck_ are you playing at, Eliot?"

Eliot blinks at him. "Excuse me?"

Quentin waves a hand in a frustrated gesture. "What are you trying to accomplish with all of - of _this?_ " he demands, gesturing between them. "All of the goddamn touching, the - the innuendos, the fucking _flirting?_ If this is just like whatever the hell it is you do with Margo, okay, fine. Great! But you need to tell me, Eliot, because I can't take it anymore, this goddamn back-and-forth, trying to figure out if this is just you, how you act around someone you're comfortable with, or if you want more." At some point, Quentin started pacing, and now he reaches up, runs a hand roughly through his hair. "I've spent the past couple of months trying to convince myself this _affection_ is just how you are, but you fucking invited me to kiss you, Eliot, then you spent so long sleeping right up against me that I still can't even feel my damn hand!" Quentin comes to an abrupt stop, and is mortified to realize there's tears gathering at the corner of his eyes. "I can be your friend, Eliot, I don't - Whatever this is, for you, I don't want to lose that. But I need to know what you fucking _want_ from me."

Eliot just gapes at him for the longest moment, and then he just-- drops his face into his hands. "Okay," he mumbles, voice muffled. "This is not what I was expecting."

"Then what the fuck _were_ you expecting?" Quentin explodes, hands dropping to fist at his sides as he glares at Eliot. 

"Not this," Eliot says again. "I just-- I need a moment to process, all right?"

Quentin practically vibrates in place, caught between two emotions he can't - won't - name. "Fine," he bites out. "Take your time."

Eliot does - only a few minutes, but enough to set Quentin's teeth on edge. When he finally looks up again, he looks no less baffled than he did before, but he seems ready to speak at least. "You... think I've been playing with you this whole time?"

"I don't know _what_ to think!" Quentin cries. "That's the point of this whole thing, I have no idea what you've been doing, not really."

"I thought I was making myself clear," Eliot says. "I've been-- courting you."

Quentin just stares at him. "What? No you haven't. You can't have been."

"I've been _trying_ ," Eliot sniffs.

" _How?_ "

"I've been all over you!" Eliot cries. "I've been-- in your personal space, and I've been spending time with you, and cooking for you and helping you with-- things. I didn't want to go too hard; I didn't want to scare you off. I just wanted you to. Know. That it was an option."

Quentin just stares for another moment, and then he buries his face in his hands, letting out a brief, high-pitched noise - scream, more accurately - of frustration. "Seriously?" he demands, but he isn't really demanding it of _Eliot,_ more of the universe. "I've been trying to keep from getting my hopes up for weeks, and you've been trying to - to _court_ me that whole time?" Lifting his head, he gives Eliot a baleful glare. "Why didn't you _say_ anything, or just - actually kiss me?"

Eliot shrugs, helpless. "I don't know what you want me to say," he admits. "I've wanted you since pretty much that first day, but then we were friends, and then there was Alice and Mike, and... It never seemed like the right time. I was scared."

"Alice and I never - " Quentin cuts himself off, shaking his head. It doesn't matter now, what he and Alice did or didn't do. He looks at Eliot, and sighs. "I was scared, too," he says quietly. "That's why I never said anything. But I - I want you, too. Just as long."

Eliot swallows hard. "I'm sorry I wasn't more clear," he says. "I've never done this before."

Quentin's lips twitch in a small smile. "I haven't, either."

Eliot laughs, soft and still a little uncertain. "Well," he says, "now that we've established that we both suck at this, what do we do now? I'd like to keep rubbing my body all over you like an overgrown cat, but maybe that wasn't doing it for you to begin with."

Quentin feels his cheeks heat, and he steps forward, sitting down on the bed next to Eliot. "No, it - it was," he assures Eliot. "I really liked it."

"I don't want to fuck this up," Eliot warns him. "You're way too important to me to ruin everything with a fling."

Quentin snorts, reaching for Eliot's hand with a slight smile. "I don't want a fling, either," he says. "That's kind of why I was yelling a couple of minutes ago, remember?"

"I know," Eliot says. "But I'm me, and I have a bit of a reputation for being kind of... slutty. A well-earned reputation, but that all goes out of the window for you, and I need you to know that."

Quentin gives Eliot's hand a squeeze. "I do," he says quietly, sincerely. "I know that. And I'd really like to do this whole dating-slash-courting thing right, with you."

"Fuck the courting," Eliot huffs, tugging Quentin closer. "I'm a master of seduction, but clearly I'm a complete waste of space when it comes to wooing someone. Dating, though. I could try that."

Quentin goes easily, laughing quietly. "I mean, you might've had more success if you weren't trying to woo _me,_ " he points out. "I'm pretty oblivious, and kind of an anxious wreck sometimes. But yeah, dating sounds good."

Their faces are very close together now, their lips barely a hair's breadth apart, but Eliot just keeps talking. "I don't exactly have a good track record with that either," he admits. "I might need some help. And a lot of patience."

"Lucky for you, I think you're worth the patience," Quentin teases gently. "But please don't make me wait too long to kiss you; I've kind of been fantasizing about that for months."

"Oh, _months?_ " Eliot laughs, teasing right back, but he does as Quentin asks and kisses him.

* * *

It's been a shit day. For no real reason, either. There wasn't a test in a subject he hates; there was no homework he forgot to do or a spell he couldn't grasp; he and Eliot are golden as always. But it's been a shit day, and Quentin is done. So done.

It's a Thursday, which means both Eliot and Margo should be in their Advanced Dead Languages class, so all Quentin wants to do right now is get into the Cottage and go up to the room he's been sharing with Eliot for the past month. An actual nap might be difficult, he's so wound up, but it definitely won't hurt to curl up in a bed that smells of _home_ for the hour and a half until Eliot actually gets back.

Except that all of his plans come to a screeching halt the moment he opens the Cottage front door, because he knows that laugh. That's Eliot's laugh - and that's Margo's voice.

Sure enough, when he peeks around the corner he sees Eliot himself, lounging on the sofa while Margo is curled up in one of the armchairs. She sees him first, but a meaningful raise of her eyebrows is all it takes for Eliot to twist around to look at him. His smile slips almost straight away, replaced by a slight furrow between his eyebrows.

"Hey," he says, quietly, like he might to a spooked animal. "Everything okay?"

Quentin sighs. "Just been a bad day," he says, moving in closer until he can sit on the sofa next to Eliot. "Shouldn't you two be in class?"

"We got out early," Margo says. "Someone screwed up their pronunciation and summoned a sea monster into the middle of the classroom."

Quentin can't help the snort he lets out. "Of course they did," he chuckles. He glances between Margo and Eliot, suddenly uncertain. "Are you two... busy?"

"Do we look busy?" Margo scoffs.

Eliot reaches out and slides a warm hand over Quentin's knee. "What do you need?"

Quentin ignores Margo in favor of giving Eliot a slightly-desperate look, throwing in a hint of puppy eyes for good measure. "Can you just, like, crush me, please? Like I need something to ground me before I start spiraling."

Eliot doesn't even hesitate. He just gives him a fond, indulgent look, and says, "Of course I can. Come here." It takes a little rearranging and a lot of mocking from Margo, but eventually they settle in a tangle of limbs, Quentin lying on the couch and Eliot settled on top of him like a weighted blanket. "Better?"

Quentin makes a happy noise and buries his face in the crook of Eliot's neck. "Much better," he hums, arms tightening briefly around Eliot's waist. 

"You two are disgusting," Margo complains, though there's no real heat to it. "You know that, don't you?"

"Don't care," Quentin mumbles, barely audible. "Comfy."

Eliot hums in agreement and kisses whatever part of Quentin's face he can reach. "Don't listen to her," he tells him. "She's just jealous."

"I most certainly am _not_."

Quentin's smirk is audible. "She can always go get her own human blanket. Alice might volunteer."

Margo sniffs. "Like you're the leading Alice expert."

"I don't know, Bambi. They're quite close these days, or haven't you been paying attention?"

Margo breaks. "All right, you little twerp, tell me everything you know."

Eliot's laugh rumbles comfortingly through Quentin's whole body. "Let him nap a little first, won't you? He's had a long day."

"Nap now, intel later," Quentin agrees. "Alice isn't going anywhere."

"Neither am I," Eliot says, achingly fond. "So shut up and go to sleep."

And Quentin does.


End file.
